


(Probably Something That Shouldn't Be) Said Out Loud

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Takes a Nap (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Self-Esteem Issues, Sleep Deprivation, Sleep Paralysis, not as heavy as those tags make it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: Crowley hasn’t been sleeping well since the world didn’t end, but when he falls asleep on the bookshop sofa he’s not the only one who has to deal with his nightmare.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 122





	(Probably Something That Shouldn't Be) Said Out Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Katie for the beta.  
> Title taken from and story inspired by ‘Bury A Friend’ by Billie Eilish: [Read](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/billieeilish/buryafriend.html) / [Listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUHC9tYz8ik)

Crowley’s eyes are heavy as he looks at Aziraphale across the bookshop’s coffee table. He locks his jaw to stifle a yawn. Aziraphale is still speaking and Crowley uses all his remaining energy to focus on the words.

“…makes a _smashing_ cup of tea, gives really wonderful advice, and… Crowley, are you okay? You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine, ang—” Another yawn comes upon him so quickly Crowley isn’t able to stifle it. “—el. Who are you talking about?”

“Tracy,” answers Aziraphale with the air of someone a bit fed up of repeating themselves. “I went to visit her this morning. I’ve been telling you about it for the last half an hour.” He narrows his eyes at Crowley. “Are you _sure_ —”

“I’m _fine_.”

“It’s been three weeks since armageddon didn’t happen, have you slept at all in that time?”

“Of course I have.”

It isn’t a lie. Crowley _has_ slept since the earth and their very existence didn’t end. It has just been a very different and unpleasant experience, so he’s tried to do it as little as possible. He’s got better things to do anyway. Like lounge around in a certain bookshop, drinking wine, and listening to an angel talk.

“So, Tracy gave you advice.” Crowley deflects back to the conversation Aziraphale was originally having without him. “What on? Your wardrobe? You _did_ look good in that dress. Possession tips? The dos and don’ts next time you find yourself a willing host?”

“Oh, no, it was… just a little… erm… well, the thing is I…” Aziraphale blusters before stopping completely and standing up. “More wine?”

As Aziraphale bustles off to fetch another bottle, Crowley lets his head fall to rest on the back of the sofa. He determinedly keeps his eyes open. This is not the first time in the last few weeks Aziraphale has obviously had something to say. But still, he refuses to actually get it out. Crowley hopes he plucks up the courage to use his words soon; the anticipation is driving him up the wall.

Without Aziraphale there talking and requiring his attention, Crowley’s mind begins to wander. It wanders to the darkness of his bedroom, and the shadow towering over his bed. He shakes his head and screws his eyes shut to dispel the thought. His eyes scream with the relief of being closed. Instantly, Crowley feels himself being pulled down into sleep. With all the willpower he possesses, Crowley wrenches his eyes open again and keeps them moving over the patterns of the ceiling and cornicing.

It’s exhausting, trying to stay awake. And frustrating. He’s a demon. He doesn’t _need_ sleep. It’s just that his body has apparently got used to it over the years, and has now taken to demanding it on a regular basis.

Quite without his permission, Crowley finds himself sliding sideways on the sofa, his legs rising up onto the other end of their own volition. Refusing to cave to his body’s demands, Crowley continues to survey the ceiling. He catalogues tiny cracks, small spots of peeling paint, and at least two spiders.

He blinks.

When Crowley opens his eyes he knows that some amount of time has past. He can _feel_ it. The bookshop is dimly lit by a couple of lamps and there is darkness at its windows. His sunglasses have been removed and there is a blanket covering him from the chest down. Crowley knows he can’t put his sunglasses back on or move the blanket even if he wanted to.

Crowley notices all this only vaguely. Most of his attention is on the shadow standing over him.

The shadow is tall and thin and grins down at Crowley with sharp teeth. There are no sunglasses covering its eyes—not that there is anything to cover. Both eyeballs are entirely black and are boring down on Crowley intently.

“Good evening, sleepyhead,” says the shadow.

Crowley does not reply. _Can’t_ reply. The shadow is not deterred by this.

“Still alive then? Haven’t seen you in a few days. Thought you might have been trying to hide from me. Which would be pointless. You know that, right? You’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

The shadow bends, looming over him, bringing their heads within inches of each other. Crowley can smell the rotting stench of its breath, but is unable to turn his face away.

“I didn’t think you’d survive this long, honestly. Hell may have left you alone for now, but you _know_ they’ll come knocking again. Next time they won’t bother with the showmanship. It’ll be a summoning circle, a curse, or an unexpected bucket of holy water from a great height. Wouldn’t that be apposite?”

The rotting smell intensifies for a moment while the shadow laughs. Then the shadow bends its head to the side, as though in thought, and stands up straight again.

“It really a shock you’re still alive, the stupid shit you’ve pulled over the years. Saving kids from downing, making deals with the other side, leaving the humans to it and taking credit for their worst atrocities. You’ve always been a shit demon—Hell should have done something about you sooner.”

The shadow raises an arm and points down at Crowley while it shakes its head disapprovingly. Crowley wants to reach up and grab hold of that finger. He wants to feel it snap in his grip. But his arms remain uselessly by his sides.

“You’ve always made stupid decisions. Talking to people you shouldn’t, working with the opposition, staging elaborate _rescues_ of the enemy. And for what? For an angel who won’t ever care for you in the same way you care for him. It’s _pathetic_.”

The last word is spat from the shadow’s mouth and Crowley feels flecks of its putrid spittle hit his face, unable to even close his eyes against it.

“You know if you keep hanging around here you’re just putting that angel in more danger? You’re still a demon. You’ll always attract trouble of one kind or another. All you have to offer him is substandard drunken company and a fuck tonne of risk. For the rest of eternity… or until Hell turns up with a flamethrower full of hellfire. You’ve seen this bookshop burn before, second time unlucky, hey?”

Technicolour surround sound scenes of the burning bookshop flash before Crowley’s wide, horrified eyes. This time, in Crowley’s imagination, as flames lick through the bookshelves and billow from broken windows, it’s _his_ fault.

“The angel already knows, of course,” continues the shadow. “He’s put up with you for this long because you were useful, but now he’s free from Heaven's clutches, what use are you? There’s really no point hanging around waiting for him to finally pluck up the courage to say it. You _know_ what he’s going to tell you. He’s going to tell you to piss off. He’ll do it nicely, because he’s still a soft-hearted angel, but he’s also a bastard and he doesn’t _really_ care about you. Why are you waiting for him to tell you to leave? You should just _go_.”

Crowley hates this part. The part when what the shadow says, the vicious whispers into Crowley’s ear, start to make sense. When Crowley gives up trying to fight the words he knows, deep inside, are true.

The shadow leans uncomfortably close again, its lips ghosting over Crowley’s ear. Its breath is cold and sends shivers down Crowley’s immobilised spine.

“For six thousand years you’ve done everything for that angel, at the expense of yourself. All because you can’t refuse him. But you can’t refuse _me_ , either, can you?”

Crowley wants to scream. He can feel the sensation building in his chest, but it is trapped there. And he’s trapped here, with his shadow.

“I’m your own worst enemy.” The shadow pulls back, its black eyes meeting Crowley’s. “I’m _you_.”

Crowley knows, of course. Has known all along. But it’s still disconcerting to see the darkness of the shadow’s eyes melt away, leaving round golden irises and vertical black pupils behind. It doesn’t stop there either. The shaded indistinct face takes form and colour, and red hair appears on its head. The vague impression of shoulders turn solid and become sharp, clad in a black jacket identical to the one Crowley is wearing.

A noise catches Crowley’s attention. A small huff followed by the distinct sound of a book being closed and slid back onto a shelf.

The shadow turns in the direction of the sound. A few seconds later it turns back to Crowley, familiar sharp-toothed grin in place.

“This should be fun,” says the shadow as it stands up straight and smooths down its jacket. “You wait here. I won’t be long.” And with that the shadow—the very worst of Crowley’s secret fears and looking the spitting image of him—turns and wanders off into the shop.

Crowley, left incapacitated on the sofa, can do nothing to warn Aziraphale. He listens to the shadow’s footsteps as it walks away and stares up at the ceiling while the scream trapped in his chest intensifies.

It doesn’t take long for the sound of the footsteps to come to a halt. In the quiet of the night, in a cosy Soho bookshop, the sound of voices carries easily.

“Hey, angel.”

“Crowley.” There is a note of surprise in Aziraphale’s voice. “You’re awake. I expected you to sleep through the night, you looked exhausted, my dear.”

“It’s hard to relax when I know there’s something you want to tell me.”

Aziraphale’s startled blustering can be heard, and Crowley would do anything to be able to get up from the sofa. To go to Aziraphale and soothe his uncertainty. To reassure Aziraphale like he’s sure the shadow won’t.

“What is it you’ve been trying to say?” asks the shadow. “Have you been trying to pluck up the courage to tell me to piss off?”

“Crowley, it’s—”

“Do you want to tell me that I’m not good enough?” pushes the shadow, not letting Aziraphale speak. “That I’m here every day now and you can’t get a moment’s peace? That you want me to leave you alone and never darken your door again?”

Crowley wants to screw his eyes up and hide from the questions he can hear. As much as he fears they’re true he has never intended to speak them aloud. He’s never wanted to actually _ask_ them.

There is a heavy beat of silence which Aziraphale does not rush to fill, and Crowley’s heart becomes heavier and sinks lower in his chest.

“We both know the cost of your being my _friend_ is far too high,” continues the shadow. “You _should_ want to get away from me. I’m _evil_. I’m a _demon_. Just because Hell aren’t around right now doesn’t mean they never will be. Doesn’t mean they won’t ever come looking for me—for _you_.”

“ _Stop it_ , Crowley.”

Footsteps sound and Crowley sees a flash of beige out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he tries to turn his head to get a better look, but his body still refuses to move.

“What are you even getting out of this friendship? Why didn’t you smite me or run away from me that very first moment on the wall? And every moment after that? You _should have_.”

“Why are you saying these things, Crowley?”

“Do you ever wonder?” continues the shadow, ignoring Aziraphale’s question entirely. “About what I’m getting out of this friendship? What do you know about me, really? My motivations? Why I keep hanging around?”

Aziraphale must move again, because now when Crowley focuses he can just see him at the edge of his peripheral vision. Aziraphale is shaking his head. The shadow, wearing Crowley’s face, crowds Aziraphale’s personal space, but Aziraphale holds his ground.

“You’ve never seemed scared of me.”

“Of course I haven’t—” Aziraphale starts.

“Why?” interrupts the shadow. “You really should be. You claim to care about me. But why would you say that, when we both know it’s impossible?”

“Crowley, _please_ ,” begs Aziraphale. He looks imploring at shadow Crowley, who meets his gaze dispassionately.

“You have no idea what I dream about at night, do you? What depravities fill my mind? You’d be _horrified_ , angel…”

The shadow continues to speak, but Crowley barely registers the words. His entire focus is on Aziraphale, who has drawn back slightly, a small crease between his eyebrows. He mouths something to himself, but from the corner of his eye Crowley can’t make out what it is.

Then Aziraphale looks up at the shadow, a hardness clear in his posture.

“Dream,” he says, as though answering an unasked question.

“— _What?_ ” says the shadow. It takes a step back, obviously surprised.

“You’re not Crowley,” Aziraphale tells the shadow. He turns immediately to the couch and even from his awkward angle, Crowley can see relief wash over Aziraphale’s face. “ _That’s_ Crowley.”

“What? No. Where are you going?” The shadow speaks to no one; it is left behind as Aziraphale dashes across the shop to Crowley.

And then Aziraphale is there, on his knees beside the sofa and filling Crowley’s vision. Crowley wants to let out a sob of relief, but he _still_ can’t move. The scream in his chest is still clamouring for release.

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale’s hands hover over Crowley. They move from his chest to his shoulder and face—always moving but never touching. “Are you okay?”

There is a hiss from behind Aziraphale. Crowley sees the shadow drop its facade and return back to its black indistinct form. Aziraphale doesn’t even seem to hear it.

“Can you move? Are you okay? Please, Crowley, I—” Aziraphale cuts himself off and screws his eyes shut.

Crowley desperately wants to move. To reach out and touch Aziraphale, to let him know he’s okay. Except Crowley’s not okay because he still _can’t move_.

Aziraphale opens his eyes and gently moves to rest his hand on Crowley’s forearm. He looks into Crowley’s eyes, still wide and staring up at the bookshop ceiling.

“Crowley, dear, I don’t know what that is—” Another hiss from behind Aziraphale as the shadow looms closer. “—or why it’s saying those things, but they’re not true. None of it is true. You have to know that, Crowley.” The hand on Crowley’s arm tightens its grip. “I don’t want you to leave. I _never_ want you to leave. You’re not evil, you’re not even troublesome. Not to me. I don’t care if Hell or Heaven come looking for us, because we’ll face them together.”

The jagged mouth of the shadow curls in a sneer, but Crowley ignores it. He focuses on Aziraphale. There are now two hands gripping his arm. Crowley wants nothing more than to be able to touch Aziraphale’s hands and soothe his tension.

“You’re my _best friend_ , Crowley. _You_ are what I get out of this friendship. Your company, your wit, your conversation… I think I’ve just had a very personal encounter with what you experience when you fall asleep—”

The shadow creeps ever closer, peering directly over Aziraphale’s shoulder down at both of them. Its hissing intensifies, but Aziraphale raises his voice and speaks over it.

“—and I need to tell you it’s all _lies_. Don’t believe anything that thing tells you, Crowley. If it’s the worst of your imagination, your fears, your doubts, your nightmares. It’s _wrong_ … so, so wrong.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, ignoring the black shadow that hangs over them. He lets go of Crowley’s arm and cups Crowley’s face instead. He’s so gentle. His eyes are soft as they look directly into Crowley’s, obscuring his view of the ceiling.

“Crowley, I love you. _That’s_ what I’ve been trying to find the courage to say. I love you so much, my dear.”

Crowley’s brain screeches to a halt as he tries to process Aziraphale’s words. He _loves_ him? Crowley gazes up into Aziraphale’s eyes, lost for a moment in the sea blue-green of them.

He blinks.

Without thinking, Crowley’s arms reach up and pull Aziraphale close. He holds him as the scream in his chest finally makes its way up his throat. Crowley roars into Aziraphale’s shoulder. The sound is raw relief, muted by layers of clothing and is accompanied by Aziraphale’s whispered words of comfort in his ear.

The shadow is gone. Not forever, Crowley knows, but for now. And for the moment, that will do.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
